


No Place Like Home

by sixtysevenlmpala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Batcave, Coda, Coming In Pants, Domestic, Episode: s09e04 Slumber Party, Fluff, Frottage, M/M, Making Out, Smut, Winchesters watching Game of Thrones together and making out and talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-31 00:14:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixtysevenlmpala/pseuds/sixtysevenlmpala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No place like home, huh? You mean that?” </p><p>“It’s not—I didn’t mean the bunker."</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Place Like Home

**Author's Note:**

> Coda for 9x04, inspired by the many many fluffy codependency feelings in the latest episode. 
> 
> [happy sighing]
> 
> Also posted on [tumblr](http://sixtysevenlmpala.tumblr.com/post/65563520515/no-place-like-home-a-9x04-ficlet-read-on-ao3/).

The bunker’s quiet after Charlie leaves. Dean thinks it’s because, despite what either of them say, there’s a huge possibility that she might not come back.

Dean stares at the closed door for a little while before realising that Sam’s not by his shoulder anymore, and he purposely doesn’t seek him out, knowing he likes to spend time alone, that he’ll find him when he wants that time to end.

Sure enough, a few hours later, Dean’s got his feet propped up on the dining table and a book in his hands that he’s only half-reading, and Sam’s head appears around the doorway. “Hey,” Sam says, and Dean smiles in acknowledgement, closing the book. Sam swings around the doorframe, brandishing a _Game of Thrones_ DVD case at him. “You wanna pick up where we left off?”

“Sure,” Dean says easily, grabbing a couple of cold ones on the way. He follows close behind Sam until they reach Sam’s bedroom, sliding appreciative eyes over the muscles in his back and shoulders that bunch visibly under his plaid.

There’s a throbbing ache in Dean’s side from tussling with the Witch, a bruise blooming nicely under his shirt that twinges sharply with every other step. He’s moving carefully, easing himself down onto Sam’s bed as Sam flops his gargantuan self down next to him; Dean on the right, Sam on the left. Sam makes a comment about how he didn’t seem to get hurt at all on this one, and Dean grits his teeth and nods.

Evening is falling outside, but to Dean it feels like the dead of night already, his eyes heavy and drooping as Sam cues up the episode and presses play. He doesn’t let himself drop off, though – enjoys the warmth of his brother pressed up against him too much, likes the familiar way Sam’s head is resting on top of Dean’s, Dean’s cheek settled on Sam’s shoulder. It’s comfortable. It’s nice.

It’s not exactly a secret that Dean falls far from the touchy-feely tree. The cuddles, the snuggles, the post-coital spooning that Sam so often nags him into; it all very much doesn’t fit with his character, and that’s okay. Right now, though? Maybe he’s sinking into Sam’s firm warmth a little more than he usually does, and maybe he’s the one shifting to press his leg up against Sam’s as opposed to the other way around.

Well, goddamn, he saw Charlie die today, saw Cas die just a few days before, so screw everything, he wants to be close to his brother right now. He wants to feel how real he is, how his blood runs hot and _alive_ through his veins, push closer and closer until he can feel Sam’s heartbeat shake through hiribcage and his flesh and right into Dean’s, lighting him up from the inside with the knowledge that his brother’s still here with him.

He guesses that’s why, instead of paying attention to the DVD, his thumb is rubbing a slow circle into the inseam of Sam’s jeans, midway up his thigh, denim rough under the pads of his fingertips. It’s probably also why he’s turning his head to nose under Sam’s ear, nuzzling his face into his neck.

Sam smells like home; faint traces of gunpowder layered over spice and sweat and girly shower gel.

Dean stretches to put his bottle on the bedside table and lets his fingernails scritch purposefully over Sam’s jeans, deliberately raking down the soft, sensitive flesh of his inner thigh. His brother jolts in surprise, and Dean takes the opportunity of his movement to slide his hand a little further up, squeezing Sam’s thigh to illustrate the fact that his hand is resting dangerously close to his crotch.

“Dean,” Sam reprimands, eyes forward, “you’re being a distraction.”

“Am not,” Dean smirks, letting hot breath wash over Sam’s neck, letting his lips drag over Sam’s jaw as he talks.

“You know I’m actually trying to watch this, right?” Sam grouses, but Dean can hear the smile in his voice, just like he can see his cock stirring in his pants.

“Mhm,” Dean murmurs, nosing his way to the point where Sam’s pulse thrums under the skin, “sure, go ahead, Sammy,” and he latches onto that spot, sealing his lips around it and sucking the skin into his mouth as Sam sucks in a breath through his teeth.

“I’m not even gonna get through the first season with you around,” Sam says, sounding a little breathy, “maybe I should start watching it without you.”

Dean shakes his head. He pulls back to observe the dark pink of Sam’s neck, smirks, dives back in and clamps his teeth down to hear Sam gasp out. “Can’t do that,” he says, “I’m too invested.”

“Oh yeah, I can see that,” Sam laughs, then, “oh my god, are you _serious?_ ” when Dean smoothly slides his hand up to cup Sam’s dick through his jeans.

“So serious,” Dean grins, nipping at Sam’s neck, and there it is, right there, Sam tips his head back and rolls it to the side a little, sighing, giving Dean about a mile more skin to play with, giving in.

“You’re insatiable,” Sam mutters, pushing his head back against the pillows to arch his neck into the pressure of Dean’s mouth. “God, _fine_ ,” he chuckles, low in his throat, and Sam reaches across him to grip his shoulder and then he’s _pushing_ and somehow Dean ends up on his back, Sam grinning triumphantly on top of him. “You asked for it, dude,” he points out, sounding like a smug little teenager as he pins Dean’s wrists above his head, shoving them into the plush pillows.

“Really gettin’ your strength back, huh,” Dean huffs. Doesn’t think about it.

“Guess so,” and oh, God, Sam’s grin is blinding and he is beautiful and Dean is the luckiest man in the whole damn world. “I feel great, actually,” Sam tells him, dimples deep and eyes sparkling, and Dean nods his approval, lifting his chin and angling for a kiss, grinning when Sam leans down.

Where they might usually let their mouths crash together, though, Sam stops; holds himself still just before it happens, lips hovering a breath away from each other before he allows them to meet. Slow, careful. Dean hums appreciatively into the kiss. Sam lets go of Dean’s wrists in favour of cupping his face in both hands, thumbs massaging his jaw on both sides, coaxing him open, and God if Dean needs any persuasion, been waiting for this all day. Another evening, Dean might have taken the opportunity of his hands being free to flip them over and take control, and he can feel Sam tense above him, readying for it; but it doesn’t come. The left side of Dean’s body is still consumed by its own dull ache, and Sam’s clearly not feeling any pain, and Dean _likes_ this, likes the feeling of Sam bracketing him all around, Sam’s control enveloping them both and twining them together.

Eyes closed, Dean maps the contours of Sam’s back with his hand, skating over the ridges and shifting bulges of solid muscle until he reaches the dip just before his ass. Pressure there, sweet and soft, and Sam goes with it immediately, just like clockwork, lowers his body down so that Dean can slot their legs together – thighs between hard thighs, hips fused tight.

Their lips slide smoothly, fit together as perfectly as they always have, and when Dean sucks on Sam’s tongue just the way Sam likes, Sam moans softly, hips bucking roughly into Dean’s. “So predictable,” Dean laughs.

“Shut up,” Sam mumbles, “can’t believe I’m missing Game of Thrones for your benefit,” and God, he’s burying his face in Dean’s neck and biting at his collarbone because the little bastard _knows_ that gets Dean going, smirking when Dean gasps.

“It does have a pause button, jackass,” Dean whispers, because yeah, Joffrey’s still going on in the background, and he doesn’t know why neither of them thought of that before.

“Wish _you_ had a pause button,” Sam shoots back, fumbling for the DVD remote because Dean has his legs locked around his waist and his hand fisted in his hair and there’s no way he’s letting him move _away_.

“Nah, you don’t. You’d get bored in an hour,” Dean replies, tugging at Sam’s hair.

Sam hisses, mouth dropping open as he tips his head back with the movement. “I’d live in _peace_.”

“Ah, but who’d do the dishes when Princess Samantha doesn’t wanna break a nail?”

“God, shut _up,_ ” Sam laughs, licking his way back into Dean’s mouth, and Dean doesn’t really have a choice but to do as he’s told, so instead he reaches around with both hands to squeeze Sam’s ass, pull him into Dean, guide his hips into a driving rhythm. “Better,” Sam laughs breathlessly, a happy sound that pierces Dean’s heart and melts into a low moan as Dean works with him, grinding the both of them together.

He keeps his hands on Sam’s ass long after they’ve settled into a rhythm, his guidance no longer needed but he loves the sounds Sam makes every time he flexes his fingers, gropes the flesh. Quiet whimpers pushed out from Sam’s lungs with every possessive grab of Dean’s hands, with every tight circle of Dean’s hips rolling against his cock. It’s been so many years, so many times that they’ve done this, just this – they move like a well-oiled machine now, synchronised engines thrumming just beneath the skin as they meld together in a sweet, slow fluidity, a rise-fall give-take perfect friction created only by them, only for them.

Dean really wishes they were naked for this, or at least _more_ naked – wants to feel Sam’s skin slide against his, mingled sweat, wants Sam’s cock leaking slick against his own, wants to see the stark white crescents his fingernails would leave on Sam’s ass and that sex flush that blossoms from Sam’s face right down to his chest. But he’s so wrapped up in Sam and the way he smells and sounds, wound up in him so far that he’s not sure he can ever extract himself, and he _can’t_ tear himself away for something as trivial as clothes.

So fuck it.

Denim scraping rough and Sam’s fingernails digging sharp into his shoulders, Sam’s harsh breaths panting hotly into his mouth; it all swirls together, sensations closing in on Dean and he just holds Sam tighter, locks his legs around his waist and his arms around his neck, keeping him there, _please, please, please just stay._ Sam’s hands find their way underneath Dean’s button-down, gliding over his lean stomach and curling around to his back, lifting him from the mattress and holding him closer than Dean thought he could even get, closer than he has any right to be. “Sammy,” he breathes shakily, “God, need—needed this—“

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam whispers, hips thrusting against Dean’s, more force but the same slow pace, movements jerky and stunted now but still they move as one. Sam’s open mouth is pressed to Dean’s cheekbone, and Dean yanks at his hair until their mouths are lined up and he can kiss him sweetly, offering up softly pouted lips in direct contrast to the filthy actions of their hips. Sam whines and takes it gladly, takes whatever Dean gives him as his arms lock like a glorious vice around Dean’s body; and Dean feels it when he comes in his jeans, watches his eyes widen and savours the soft, delicate hazel, thanking all his stars that there’s not a flash of blue in sight. Dean follows him over the edge a second later when Sam smiles hazily down at him.

They lie in a heap. Dean has no idea how much time passes, but he feels like he might have drifted away to sleep a couple of times before he really comes back into himself. He cracks one eye open, and Sam has at some point rolled to the other side of the bed, propped up on one elbow and grinning with amusement. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

Dean grunts in response. Sam’s tracing swirly, wistful patterns over Dean’s abs, one hand still stray under his shirt, and Dean doesn’t bother to tease him about being such a girl. It feels nice, anyway. “So,” Dean says at length, clearing his throat and going for a conversational tone as he meets Sam’s gaze. “No place like home, huh? You mean that?”

It’s something Dean didn’t question at the time, but inside he was dying to ask Sam about it. Wanted to know what exactly he meant, because God help him, Dean only wants him to be happy. For Sam, he wants all the basics that everyone else takes for granted but don’t deserve nearly as much as him: safety, security, a place to go when he’s scared or alone. A place that’s his own. _Their_ own. Sometimes, granted, he forgets that Sam never had what he had with Mom, never knew _home_ , but goddamn, Dean wants him to learn it.

Sam doesn’t say anything for a long while, doesn’t look at Dean, doesn't touch him, and Dean begins to think sickly that he’s pushed it too far.

“It’s not—I didn’t mean the bunker,” Sam says finally.

Dean frowns, stomach dropping. “Then what?”

“Well—this. Us.” Sam takes a short breath, seems to steel himself before meeting Dean’s eyes. “You.”

Dean lapses into silence for a few moments, then pulls out a cheeky, pleased-with-himself grin, like he’s just been told he’s won a lifetime supply of pie and can’t quite believe his luck. “Me?”

Sam shrugs. “I don’t know what… _home_ is, exactly, not by experience. But I know what it’s meant to be.” He pauses. Dean waits. “Somewhere you feel safe, right? Somewhere you can go in your time of need. It’s… familiar, and reliable, and—and constant, you can always trust that it’s there when everything else goes to crap. Somewhere you belong.” Dean bites the inside of his cheek, clenches his jaw, sensing emotion welling up a little inside him and not allowing it to overflow. “I don’t know, Dean, but I feel like I’ve got all that. Already. In you. You’ve been all those things for as long as I can remember, so when I think of... of home, I pretty much go straight for you. You know?”

Dean’s stomach twists with guilt and he nods a little stiffly. “Yeah, Sammy, I get it.”

“Is that okay?” Sam asks cautiously, peering into Dean’s suddenly shuttered face.

“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yeah, of course it is. I want you to have all that stuff, Sam, you know I do, so wherever you find it...” he shrugs, spreads his palms, “s’all good by me. It’s just…” he sighs. “I want you to be able to call this home, too.” The _‘cause you can’t always trust me, Sammy_ is silent and poisonous on his tongue— _shouldn’t rely on me, please don’t, you’re not gonna want to when you find out—_ and he gestures around them at Sam’s bedroom, the bare walls, Sam’s ‘style’.

“I know,” Sam nods, following the path of Dean’s hand and gazing around the room. “I’m just… I don’t wanna curse it, or something.”

Dean snorts. “ _Curse_ it?”

“You _know_ whenever I’ve called some place home it’s never ended well.”

“This is different,” Dean argues. “We’re Men of Letters, now, Sammy. Home is where you belong, huh? Well, then, this is our home. Right here. Ours.”

Sam swallows and nods, simultaneously avoiding Dean’s eyes and shuffling closer to him. Dean lifts his arm automatically for him to slot in there, a force of habit left over from the days when his little brother was actually his _little_ brother. “I know,” Sam murmurs. “I want it to be,” and that’s good enough for Dean.

“Good,” he says.

“But—but for now,” Sam mumbles, close to sleep – Dean can tell from the slur in his voice and also because the deadweight on his side is becoming heavier and heavier by the second – “for now, Dean, this is enough. You, you’re enough. Always have been.”

Dean exhales a slow breath through pursed lips, flicking his eyes up to the ceiling and hating himself for having to lie to Sam. “Yeah, Sammy, shh,” he whispers, “go to sleep,” and Sam slings an arm around Dean’s middle, clutches him tight and needy, and does just that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, feel free to leave a comment/kudos if you liked! :-)


End file.
